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Entered according to act of Congress, In Use yesr
ISM, by Stockton M Co., in the Clerk's Office of the
District Court for the Southern District of Georgia.
WRITTEN FOB THE SOUTHERN FIELD k FIRESIDE.
herald tag’s life.
BT THE AUTHOR OF “BUSY MOMENTS OF AN
IDLfc WOMAN,” “ LILT,” “BYLYIA’S WORLD,”
*O, AO.,
•Enough,’ cried Ruth; ‘you speak as a
man. To* speak by the rules of your caste.
Further words are useless; you do not under
stand me; you do not comprehend that were
he to begi* to lore me from this hour, 1 could
never love him again. What did I love ? The
truth, the honor, the nobleness of his character.
I saw a shadow in the water and caught it to
my heart of hearts. I loved what never had
a substance within my reach*. I held intangi
ble, unexisting air. I crowned myself with a
breath of idle wind, am! fancied I was a qo on.
Is there anything to love in that man ? I don't
know what it is! He las blue eyes—but there
are plenty of blue eyes in this world ; he is
amusing—but any actor of a French theatre is
more so; 'tis a bundle of r jgs on a scare-crow,
at which for four years l »>nve looked with
reverence. Your hand 5 ive ho Haunting de
ceit a fillip, and lo I lam cored.
‘Yes, my hand I’ 1 wish it had been withered
ere it performed so senseless an act.'
‘Why so ?’ asked Ruth, sinking into her chair,
and speaking with a monstrous hard tone;
‘recollect what you eaid, sooner or later it
would come. So desperate a passion could not
be long concealed or controlled. A man could
not live in the same atmosphere with such a
syren without succumbing to her charms. True,
he concealed it well. How he has spoken
slightingly of poor Cissy to me! Francis, you
see how weak I am—l am sneering at that in
significant girl who has had the luck to blast
my life. Listen to my request—don't draw me
on to further folly. Farewell; you are—’
‘Dearly attached to you, Ruth ; your warm
and faithful friend.’
‘lf I ever believe in anything agaiu, I will
believe that.’
'Believe it now, I entreat you, and give me
one word, one token to carry to Gerald, that
may guide him through this darkness.’
' Ruth looked fixedly at him, partly opened
her pale lips, closed them, turned away and
walked to her writing table. Her back was to
him. She placed her left hand before her.
There was her wedding ring. Twice she turned
to take it off and her courage faded —one
wrench and it rolled upon the desk. With firm
pen and steady fingers sbe wrote:
r I wore this ting as a pledge orthe sworn
love, bonor and faith of a gentleman; I return
it to the giver knowing him now to be a liar, a
trickster and a scoundrel. ’
It was Boon done, the ring enclosed, tho'en
velOpe sealed.
‘Should be ever wish to explain himself, this
will assure him of my reception,’ she said to
Francis.
He took it doubtfully. Like a brother he
folded bis arm about her aud pressed a kiss
upon her forehead with a murmured ‘God bless
you and comfort you, my child!'
A slight shiver ran through her whole frame;
she said nothing more, and stood there like a
statue; cheek, brow and bands deathly cold.
As Francis closed the door she sank upon
ber knees, and with her left and ringless band
passionately held to her lips, she tried to stifle
the great sobs which convulsed her.
CHAPTER XXV. 1
Francis was extremly unhappy and uncom
fortable when he loft Beauchamp, his first
thought, of course, was to hunt up his cousin.
He'fonnd Gerald at his mother’s, with the
most provoking look of calm indifference upon
his very handsome face. No trace of a sleep
less night nor an evil conscience disfigured
those regular features and beautiful eyes.
He welcomed Ffancis as unconcernedly as
possible. Joeelyn was not gracious nor ami
able.
Mrs. Gray was evidently quite unaware of
anything unusual having happened, and en
quired why he had left Ruth and the children ?
'Gerald told me that he had to come away
on account of some business—’
‘Because I had to come, mamma. I did not
tell you why,’ Gerald put in, smilingly. ‘How
women will jump to conclusions and fill up
sentences.’ f
Tes, my child, but of course, some business
brought you, and you were quite content to
leave dear Ruth under Francis’ care, and now,
here is Francis running to town, tool I have
a great mind to go to Beauchamp myself, since
you outrageous hoys are so careless.
‘Better not, you will meet Mr. Desborough,
perhaps, and that will bore you iptensely.
‘AhI Mr. Desborough is there! Why didn't
you say so at once, and save me all my con
jectures?’ Upon which, Mrs. Gray rose to
leave the dining-room, adding, ‘Really, Ger
ald, you have away of keeping back* things
that is perfectly unaccountable.’
‘Gerald,’ Francis as the door
closed behind Mrs. Gray; ‘what are you going
to do ? It is useless trying to put me off. I
brought on this business and it is my place to
get it all straight if possible.'
‘When Ruth sends for me, I will return—
J) not sooner.’
THE SOUTHERN FIELD AND FIRESIDE.
‘She will never send.’
Taut pis pour cite.'
‘Do you think it will be taut misery pour
voust’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Pray let me understand you. Are you
pleased at the prospect of a rupture between
yourself aud Ruth ? Ts it this which gives so
bright a look to your countenance ?’
‘I am intensely pleased to leave off acting—
to be myself. I never could have had the
hardness to tell Ruth, but since sho chose to
go eaves-droppißg, and you chose to go prying,
and you both heard the exact truth. I feel
lighter at heart than I have done for yesra.
I am very much attached to Ruth; I don’t
desire to quarrel with her; I regret most in
tensely that I ever deceived her about the
reality of my feelings, and I am quite deter
mined to avoid the society of other people. If
all that doesn't satisfy her, why she can sulk
as long as she pleases.’
‘And you are not grieved, not sad ?’
‘Not in the least. I can look men honestly
in the face to-day, a thing I have not been able
to do to my own satisfaction, this long while.
Moreover, I wonder you are not surprised as It
am, at my gentleness. If I were not full of
kindness towards Ruth, I should find it diffi
cult to pasß over her words and manner and
actions last night. She counted upon my good
temper, or she would never have dared to or
der me out of the house, and this will show
you how much inclined to bear with her., I
ma that I should so soon pass over such an
outrage.’
‘You should write to her, at least.’
‘Francis, have you never heard the old pro
verb about coming between the bark and the
tree?’
Josylyn sighed and said no more.
Days passed and not one word or sign came
from Beauchamp. These were miserable times
for Francis, who felt restless, uneasy, unoccu
pied. He watched Gerald and discovered no
visible mark of unhappiness or relenting. Mrs.
Gray spoke constantly of Ruth and of the
children; wondered that she had' not beard
from her daughter-in-law, and returned to
question Gerald as to what was said in his
letter from his home. As usual he gave her
evasive answers. Joselyn did not dare to en
lighten her, and did not care to press Gerald
further.
Frequently be thought of going back to
Beauchamp and seeing if he could effect any
change there, hut he felt that such a step was
utterly useless. Everything must come from
Gerald and one might as well have tried to
melt a sea of ice by talking to it, as try to make
an impression upon that serene young gentle
man. He did not like to deliver up the envel
ope with which he had been charged; the
contents werfi'piaiii eriftfgh lb tne 'touch, and
he feared the words were not conciliatory. He
had a natural dread of precipitating matters in
a final outbreak, and lingered from day to day,
hoping that Gerald’s paternal affection might
bring aboufa change in bis intolerable cheer
fulness. He encouraged Mrs Gray to talk
about the twins, and Gerald joined in with
animation and delight; then the grandmother
hinted as grandmothers sometimes will do,
that a few details in their bringing up might
bo altered to advantage; but Gerald instantly
took up the cudgels for Ruth, and protested
that the children were perfectly managed.
Francis caught himself looking gratefully at
Gerald, and could not but consider how absurd
was his position—thanking the husband and
his oldest and dearest friend, for Bpeaking
justly of the wife whom he had never seen till
a month ago.
1 A week had gone by and Francis had almost
fixed upon a day for leaving the South. He
was carrying a heavy heart with him, and felt
that his visit had been the cause of a misfor
tune that the laying down of his life would not
now avert or conjure away. He and Gerald
had ceased to speak on this all-important topic.
He began to fear that perhaps he had already
Bpoken too much. Left to themselves this
couple might come to an understanding. He
trusted to those holy voices healing the wound
ed depths of poor Ruth’s heart; the desire to
see them might exorcise the demon of pride
from the mind of the offending party.
Francis could not blame Ruth. He could
not think any step she might take too harsh or
too hard, he might pray that she should be all
softness and forgiveness, but he felt that she
had been tricked, outraged, insulted.
If the confidence he had forced from Gerald
had remained only with himself it would have
appeared a lighter crime. Things that ere not
widely known, will, to the best of us, seem less
damaging, than a smaller matter more general
y circulated. We are called upon to bear the
lindignation of others, as well as to air our ewn
Francis, however, (shocked as lie was) while
listening to Gerald, did not so fully appreciate
the cowardice and meanness of his friend’s ac
tion, till he found expression in Ruth’s lips.
But Gerald was correct in saying that this un
happy conversation would bring disunion be
tween them. Never could their intimacy be
again what it had been. Francis felt himself
Ruth’s champion—her sincere partisan. If
their marriage no longer united Mr. and Mrs.
Gray, there could be no quesiion in Joselyn’s
mind as to the side on which he must range
himself. If ho must choose between them—
justice and inclination were equally in the
balance of the duped and unloved wife.
He was very sad about it; the genial, boy- 1
ish, frank hr ;1. sness of Gerald was irresistible
and chare ng His saucy fondness for Francis
apparent!;.- untouched and unaltered, (unless
they grazed the now tacitly forbidden ground),
had always been Francis’ delight. The gay
nonsense and shrewd good sense, the sparkling
folly and keen satire, the outward carelessness
and the apparent under-current of affection in
Gerald were rare and great gifts. Left early
an orphan with an elder brother, morose and
indifferent, and a sister as uninteresting as she
was selfish, Francis had from their earliest
days, attached himself to his ‘sort-of cousins.’
With the exception of one woman already
hinted at, Gerald was the single being that his
affectionate nature had fastened itself upon.
And there was no possibility for him to respect
Gerald as he had done. It is wonderful that
he felt his Southern visit a failure—wished to
end it, and hoped that apart, the old feelings
would settle back after a while to their former
condition everywhere. It was evident that
his presence did no good to himself nor to any
body—his absence might be more serviceable.
He announced his intentions to Gerald, who
urged him not to go.
‘I will stay on ono condition.’ said Joselyn.
hastily.
‘My dear Francis, living among those woods
so long has blunted your perception; you used
to know me, once upon a time.’
A servant entered with a note, which he
handed to Joselyn ; ‘From Mrs. St. Clair.’
Gerald looked at his cousin and smiled know
ingly-
‘Tell Mrs. St. Clair’s servant to wait, Tom.
Ah, has the bewitching Bertha returned ? She
left town in another direction just after the
visit to Beauchamp. Any secret ?’
•None, whatever ; she wishes to see me.’
‘Wishes to see you I What the devil does
she wish to see you for? That woman rnns
after every man— ’
‘Well, at least she never run after you. I
think the runuing was the other way, wasn’t it,
Gerald?’
‘Wbat do you mean, you smiling serpent?’
asked Gerald, smiling himself.
‘You can ask her,’ said Francis, pocketing
his note and walking off with a nod, while
Gerald laughed and aimed a book at his head,
dropping it as his cousin disappeared and let
ting the gayety die out of his face, like a mask
suddenly discarded.
(continued in our next.)
-- - —». 1 ■
[Written for the Southern Field aud Fireside.]
FATAL BKVIJTV.
In the late foreign news it is stated that the
Marchese Doria, a celebrated Italian beauty,
was dead, from having Mowers constantly in
her sleeping apartments It may have struck
the reader with surprise that such a circum
stance could possibly have produced so fatal a
result, and surprise must, doubtless, have been
all from the utter incongruity we
imagine existing between the idea of blooming
flowers, and the thoughts of relentless death.
Still, strange as it may seem, there appears to
be no reason to doubt the death of the Mar
chese by the me'ans mentioned, for, as can be
shown in a few words, if the reader has hut
patience to read them, the action of flowers
and plants upon the physical system is, under
certain circumstances, exceedingly deleterious
and sometimes, as in the case of this Italian
beauty, fatal. The fact itself has been known
for many, many years, and its verity is testified
to by the sad experiences of some centuries,
though it has not been until comparatively
modern times that the philosophy of this most
singular phenomenon has been rightly under
stood.
The reader has, no doubt, noticed that a
habitation closely surrounded by trees, or a cot
embowered in shrubbery, though very pretty
to look at, and very romantic to talk of, is not
by any means the most pleasant or healthful
abode wherein to live. Sufch dwellings are
generally damp aDd chilly, and to this damp
ness and chilliness, occasioned by the foliage
shutting out the rays of the sun, the unheal
thiness is attributed. This deprivation of light
and heat has, beyond question, much to do
with the evils alluded to, but even if the sun
were to beat down upon the roof, and come
in at the windows all day long, the very pre
sence of a dense vegetation in such close prox
imity, would be sufficient to make it to the
full as unwholesome.
In order to explain how this is so, a word
may be necessary as to the constitution and
functions of plants, and the composition of air
they breathe—for, singular as it may seem,
reader, plants breathe no less than men and
animals. The microscope reveals the fact that
on the surface of the leaves of plants there
are an almost infinite number of little pores—
the lungs of the plant—which perform the
process of respiration as regularly and con
stantly as you or I, inhaling the atmospheric
* air, extracting therefrom the elements requi
| site for their proper support, and exhaling the
residue in the form of gases. The extreme
’ number of these little pores, or lungs, is some
thing wonderful, and scarcely less so is the
| rapidity with which they perform their appoint
ed functions. Some faint conception of their
number may be obtained when we state that
' upon a single oak tree seven million of leaves
have been counted, and that each of these
leaves has, upon an average, four thousand
pores, thus making the number of lungs pos
sessed by a single monarch of the woods equal
’ to something like twenty-eight billions. In
the same way, even a much humbler member
, of the vegetable kingdom—a laurel plant—
has nearly four thousand million, and so on
down to the modest little violets and daisies
which have each as many lungs as we have
hairs upon our heads. We, with our two
lungs, will find, if we take the tronble to make
the experiment, that a single respiration occu
pies a very appreciable portion of time. bu l
the plaut, with its millions, respires with the
speed of light, and the velocity of the wind.
All that is required is that the breeze shall
touch the leaves, and when it does this, no
matter how fast the blast is speeding by, these
wonderful lungs will suck in the air, disengage,
the ingredient they need and send forth their
breath upon the gale. This is the way, then,
in which all plants respire, but in order to
•showhow this breath, thus sent forth, is nox
ious to animal life, we must speak of the con
stitution of the air. This, the atmosphere wo
breathe is, ag philosophers tell us, a composi
tion of four ingredients, oxygen, nitrogen,
carbonic acid gas, nnd watery vapor, all equal
ly invisible and impalpable, though differing
widely in nature and qualities. Oxygen is the
life giving element, but is so potent, that if not
alloyed, it would cause us to live too fast, and
burn out as speedily as a candle in a strong
draught. For this reason it is largely temper
ed with nitrogen—a gas that is not capable of
maintaining liglx or life. Besides these ingre
dients, which make up the great bulk of the
air, we have in small quantities carbonic acid
gas, a virulent poison, in which light is instant
ly extinguished and life expires, and a watery
vapor that maintains a necessary humidity in
the, air. Now, on breathing in this air, our
lungs separate the oxygen, which they appro
priate to their own uso, and exhale or breathe
out the greater bulk of the other ingredients.
This process goes on day and night without
intermission or change, from the time we
are born till we 'he. Should it cease at any
time for more than a few minutes, we expire ;
or should the constitution of tbo air itself be
changed—should it contain too iittie oxygen
or too much nitrogen or carbonic acid gas, the
same fatal consequence ensues. Such is human
respiration. That of plants is different in
many respects. During the day these pores or
lungs of which mention has been made, breathe
in the atmospheric air, extract therefrom the
poisonous element of carbonic acid gas, and
return the healthful compound of oxygen and
nitrogen. Thus it will be seen that plants per
form a beneficial process, and it may seem inex
plicable how any fatal results can be produced
by their respiration. It will be noticed, how
ever, that we say this absorption of carbonic
acid gas, and giving back of oxygen occurs
during the day. bight is absolutely necessary
to the process, and when it fails at the ap
proach of and dining the night, the eutire
process is reversed, and it is the poisonous
and unhealthy gas that is breathed forth by
the million little lungs of the plant. Though
the quantity exhaled is not such as to kill in
any short time, it will where plants and flow
ers are kept in a sleeping apartment, so contam
inate the air as to lay the basis of a cruel com
plaint which attacks the bronchial and respira
tory organs, and finally prove fatal to the un
fortunate slumberer, who loves flowers, as did
the beautiful Marohese Doria, “ not wisely,
but too well." p>_
‘
If thou desire not to be too poor, desire not
be too rich ; he is rich, not that possesses
much, but he that covets no more; and he is
poor, not that enjoys little, but he that wants
too much; the contented mind wants nothing
whioh it hath not; the covetons mind wants
not only what it hath not, but likewise wha t
it hath.
i